The End of the Addict Sitter
by springfieldbluebird
Summary: The six weeks are up, and Watson leaves, but can Holmes handle not having her around? Comments welcome!
1. Chapter 1

"**The End of the Addict Sitter"**

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**Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any of these wonderful characters. I will never make money off of fanfic, but it's a lot of fun to write!  
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**Readers: Please give comments! This is my first time writing a story in present tense, so if I slip, please excuse. Hope it turned out to be something you enjoy.  
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**Week Six:**

"Well, I guess this is it." Six weeks had passed. Six weeks of working with him, helping him get his life back on track, and helping him stay clean. She feels confident that he will be alright, but she's still reluctant to leave. As if her work here was not yet done.

"Yes." Holmes nods in his curt way, not knowing exactly what to say. He only knows the black hole that fills his heart as he thinks of how it will be without her. Like a graveyard. Like a morgue. He doesn't know the correct words that will make her stay; he can't find the magic phrase to roll off his tongue like water to make her realize how much he needs her. He pretends to be interested in the results of an experiment fermenting in a Tupperware container on the hallway table as she shifts from foot to foot awkwardly—_she's wearing the black boots with the square silver buckles on the side_—he notices. She always wears them when she wants to be comfortable. "Well, I'm sure there are more addicts out there who need sitters, Watson." He says briskly, finally able to glance at her again. She holds his eyes with her own and he feels that ache start again, now seeming to encompass not only his heart, but the pit of his stomach too. His vision takes on a silvery sheen. "Well, better hurry." He rips his gaze from her and blinks furiously.

She is blinking as well; it seems that she has something in her eyes too. "I'm glad you're doing so well, Sherlock. I'm proud of you." She says softly, not seeming embarrassed by the threatening tears. "Let's stay in touch, okay?" She reaches out to give him a one-armed hug because he's turned sideways. He returns it uncertainly.

"Oh yes. Of course, Watson." He nods. There are no words in his mind except _–Don't go. I need you.—_Which he knows is_ ridiculous_ of course. She was never supposed to stay.

It still doesn't stop him from saying it softly, after she's left and getting into her car and he's watching at the window, one palm pressed against the glass.

_-Don't go. I need you-_

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**Week Eight: **

"**The Phone Call"**

"Ms. Watson, it's Gregson. How are you?"

She is surprised to get his call. "I'm doing well. How are things at the precinct?"

"Same old, same old, I'm afraid. I was calling to see if I could talk to Holmes. His phone must be down. I've been trying to get in touch with him for a few days, and I can't get him. I went by but the two of you must have been out somewhere."

A furrow appears between her eyebrows. "Um, I'm not working for him anymore, actually." Her mind was racing. Sherlock turn down a case? Certainly not. Something was wrong. She had tried to call last week, but could not get him on the phone. He had texted her that he was busy on a case and would call her later. She hasn't heard from him since. She should have texted him, or went by the apartment. She realizes that now, and it wasn't that she was too busy. It had just been too painful. Being without him was like being without an arm, or a leg. She still felt stunned at how he'd become such a part of her life. She was trying to go on without him, but it was hard.

"Oh. Um…I had no idea." Gregson says awkwardly.

"It's fine." She says. "We're still friends." It was general and simplified, but made the point. "When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"Last week. To thank him for the help you guys gave us on the Miller case." Gregson replies. "I have this new case though. . .we believe there's a counterfeit ring operating in the city, but we're having trouble locating where the money is coming from. I really needed his assistance."

"I'll get in touch with him." She says with determination. "I'll have him call you."

"Hey, that'd be great. You sure it won't put you in an …uh…awkward situation?"

"No." She replies curtly. Her mind is already racing ahead to all the disasters that could be happening. "I'll get back with you, or he will."

She ends the call and two minutes and twelve seconds later she is out the door, racing to the brownstone, all sorts of catastrophes running through her mind.

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"**The Apartment"**

Her key fits the door and it swings soundlessly open. "Sherlock…" She calls out in the darkness. There is no answer. She hits the light switch and is assaulted by the terrible state of the apartment.

Mail covers the hallway table, all unopened. A few letters are attached to the wooden table with a jackknife for some obscure reason. Further in the apartment she sees pizza boxes piled up on the kitchen table, along with something that causes her heart to fall; several empty liquor bottles—bottles that had once held scotch.

She walks into the living room. Every surface is covered with a myriad of things, except one place. The chair she had claimed as her own when she had lived there. It sits just as she left it.

The sofa is covered with dirty clothes. She notices, with alarm, that some of them are covered in blood. She glances around, a sense of horror rising with every moment. There are shards of wood near the fireplace. She walks over and notices the broken instrument. It had been smashed and the pieces thrown into the hearth. She is unable to breathe for a moment.

She turns quickly and looks at the bedroom door, which is closed. She prays that he is not in there, dead from an overdose. When she touches the knob, she is afraid but refuses to hesitate before throwing the door open.

It is empty. The bed is unmade, and again, more dirty clothes. She hears the ringing of a phone and finds his cell, in the closet in a shoebox. By the time she finds it, it has gone to voicemail. She glances at his call history and sees that he has not made a call in two weeks. Every text Gregson sends is turned aside with an excuse or simply ignored.

More liquor bottles beside the bed. Her heart is hammering in her chest. What started this? He had been doing so well. Working hard, focusing on his recovery. He had even begun playing the violin on a regular basis. For it to be smashed, for him to be drinking and not answering Gregson's calls…she shakes her head. This is not good. She is not surprised that she is trembling. She cannot bear to lose another patient. The alcohol is bad enough, but if he has gone back to cocaine…she bites her lip in worry. After a thorough search, she finds no syringes or drugs, but it only eases her mind just a little.

She will wait for him to return; setting a deadline of midnight. If she doesn't see him by then, she will call Gregson and report him missing.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

"The End (and the Beginning)"

_**Author's note: I almost wrote myself into a corner, but I think I found my way out. I'm still not as happy with this. It didn't turn out like I planned, but maybe it works okay. Again, this was an experiment for me (in present tense). It was tough in more ways than one.**_

He is surprisingly graceful, even when drunk. She hears the soft click of the lock, and his uneven footsteps in the hallway. Then she sees him. He stands there a moment and they take each other in. His clothes are rumpled and his hair stands up in wild swirls. He has a cut above his left eye and bruises on his cheek and jawline. His left hand is bandaged. He blinks several times, then leans back heavily against the wall, looking at her with an unwavering gaze.

He is afraid to speak. His mind is not thinking four, five or six moves ahead like normal—the alcohol has taken care of that for tonight, although he knows that tomorrow, he will be as acutely, painfully, crystal-sharp as always. She must be a phantasm of his brain, he thinks. His mouth works, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Sherlock." She is by his side in a moment. The hand holding his arm is warm and real. He blinks in astonishment; he hasn't counted on this—he had convinced himself that she was gone. Forever.

"Watson. . ." He lets her guide him over to the couch. He's shivering from walking too long in the cold outside. "Watson?" She begins to check him over. Her touch is warm and soothing on his face, and he tries to resist the comforting feeling. "Aren't you addict-sitting someone new?" He tries to play off his stunned expression with his old familiar dig at her.

Ignoring him, she is eyeing the cut above his eyebrow, realizing it must be a day or two old. In his typical fashion, he has not taken care of it well. She feels gently around each bruise, but no bones seem to be broken. In fact, he doesn't seem to notice her pressing fingers at all, he is just looking at her, his face expressionless. "What happened?" She asks.

"Apparently some people don't appreciate my sparkling personality." He replies, stumbling over his words a little. He holds up his hand and gestures to his face. "Bar fight." He shrugs as if it means nothing. But it means something to her. She is both upset and worried, but managing to watch him with that stern gaze of hers. The one that says he's doing something unacceptable—he's seen that look enough to know.

"I see you forgot to leave your key when you moved out." He says, then the world seems to tilt like he's on a giant see-saw and he sinks down further on the couch.

"Did I?" She asks innocently. "Wait here." She gets up to go for the first aid kit, but he catches her arm with his iron grip.

"No. Don't leave." He is holding her hard enough to bruise, but doesn't realize it. What if she left again? He sees all the days laid out before him, alone, and his resolve to be tough crumbles away. He has to say the things that he didn't say when she left. "Watson. . .You can't go. I need you."

"Sherlock, I'm not going." She says softly, not yet working her hand from his grip. "I'm just getting the first aid kit."

Her assurance is calming and he reluctantly lets her hand go and lays his head back on the sofa, watching the room spin around him. He hates her seeing him like this—he's weak and he knows it, but he also knows that no one else will understand the crushing wave of loneliness he feels. He is drowning in it. Needing her—it's a weakness, but he doesn't care anymore.

She touches his face softly, but it still stings. He smells alcohol, the antiseptic kind. "Don't lie to me." She begins slowly. Her face is stern again. "What's going on? Is it just drinking or are you using again? I mean the drinking's definitely not good, but if you are . . ."

His face registers swift pain, hating himself for making her doubt him. "No drugs." He murmurs looking down, knowing the alcohol is bad enough. He can't help but be truthful with her, however. "I thought about it, but I didn't."

His words make her sad. Working with so many addicts, she knows the claws of that obsession don't ever let go. She tilts his chin up, so she can look into his eyes. He was telling the truth as far as she could tell. She sighed in relief. "Okay. But I'm still going to drug test you later." When he had been her client, that phrase had become a refrain. Now it makes them both smile slightly.

She has so many questions to ask, but she holds them back, planning her strategy, as she examines the broken skin on his knuckles. She cleans the wounds again and applies a new bandage. "You can't continue to do this to yourself, but I have a feeling you already know that." She glances at him, then carries on packing the first aid kit back in the box.

"Sherlock, You have so many talents." She sits next to him so she can look into his eyes. "I . . .I have been in awe of you. I have seen that you can do things no one else can do. I hope you know I say that at the risk of making your head bigger than it already is." She smiles at him briefly, then continues. "I have missed watching you do what you do every day. Gregson says he's had a case for you, but you've been dodging him. That's not you. This—" she gestures at him, referring to his inebriated state, "I don't have to tell you how bad this is…how dangerous for you…"

As he listens to her, he can't hold back what he's about to say, like the walls of a crumbling vault spilling out its precious secret. "You're not being here…it's not the same." He shakes his head. "I need you here with me, Watson. I've never needed anyone before." He pauses and frowns intently. "I don't like it, needing someone. It's rather inconvenient."

She is floored by what he says. With other people, those words might not seem like much, but for him…she knows it's a monumental revelation. He looks embarrassed at her expression, so he quickly quips, "But most of all, it's the way you ask annoying questions, the way you tidy up around here, the grocery shopping, your interruptions while I read, those dreadful matches—I've found they make life a little less boring." He shrugged. "I get into trouble when I get bored."

She sits there, looking at him with wonder in her eyes. He was so complex, with one of the finest minds she had ever known. Dealing with him on a daily basis had been frustrating and infuriating. Yet sometimes, it was amazingly simple. "It's okay. Everyone needs someone. Companionship . . . friendship. . ."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "I can't promise you I know how to be a friend. I've never had many. I know I can be difficult, but I'll attempt to improve. For you."

"I think I'm going to like 'friend' a lot better than 'addict sitter'." Her smile for him is like summer sun on his face. He realizes he's been in the dark for a while.

He flashes her one of those little frownish-grins and looks down. "So. I guess we have a case for tomorrow, Watson?"

"If you're up to it. Come on." She gets up and then pulls him to his feet. They make their way through the living room, and she deposits him on his bed. "I may not be your 'addict sitter' anymore, but no more of this. Work. You said that's what you need. And I'm going to hold you to it. Now, though—go to sleep."

He nods, kicking off his shoes and curling up in the bed, knowing it is futile to argue.

"Good night, Sherlock." She goes to the door. "I'll be here in the morning."

He tries to reply, and manages to mumble something that vaguely resembles "'G'night, Joan," before sleep claims him. With a smile, she flips off the light and closes the door.

She sees hope rising like the sun of a new day.


End file.
